His Long-Lost Family

Chapter One

Four months later—

“Sorry I’m late.” Jack Garrett slid into the vacant seat across from Gord Adamson, a former law school classmate and occasional courtroom adversary, at The Winking Judge, a small pub across the street from the courthouse.

“I was surprised to get your call,” Gord admitted. “I thought you’d given up criminal law.”

“So did I,” he agreed. “But every once in a while, there’s a client I can’t turn away.”

“Because you believe in his innocence?”

“Because I believe that he deserves a break.”

The waitress came over, momentarily disrupting their conversation. Gord ordered a scotch, neat, and Jack asked for a bottle of the locally brewed Millhouse beer.

“I reviewed the file, Jack. And I’m sorry, but I don’t see probation for Travis Hatcher.”

“Come on, Gord. He’s just a kid.”

“A kid who took a baseball bat to a Mercedes that is worth more than twice my annual salary,” his colleague pointed out.

“It was his father’s car,” Jack told him, though even he wasn’t sure if that was a mitigating or an aggravating factor.

“With incidental damage to two other vehicles.”

“Restitution has already been made to the owners.”

Gord sighed. “What’s your connection to this kid?”

“I handled his parents’ divorce a few years back,” Jack admitted.

“Rough one?”

“I don’t seem to get any other kind, but this one was particularly difficult. A ten-year marriage that fell apart because the husband couldn’t keep his pants zipped and the wife couldn’t keep looking the other way. They fought over each piece of artwork and every stick of furniture, but mostly over who was going to get stuck with their ten-year-old son.”

Gord, a father with two sons of his own, winced. “Damn, Jack. You’re yanking on my heartstrings here.”

“He isn’t a bad kid,” Jack insisted. “He just got caught in a bad situation.”

“Give me some background,” the prosecutor suggested.

“A few months back, Travis was invited to a weekend camp to try out for the national amateur all-star tournament. There wasn’t anyone at the camp who doubted he would make the team. But instead of being offered a roster spot, he was sent home.”

“I can understand that he would be disappointed and upset,” Gord acknowledged. “But that doesn’t justify his actions.”

“That’s not the end of the story,” Jack told him. “About two weeks before the tournament, the number-one center fielder breaks his collarbone. There’s no way he can play, so Travis calls the national team coach, asks him to give him another chance to prove that he can fill the vacancy. And the coach bluntly tells him, ‘You’re good enough, but you’re never going to play on any team that I’m coaching. If you want to know why—ask your father.’”

“The kid’s dad screwed the coach’s wife,” Gord guessed.

Jack nodded. “Which he finally admitted when Travis confronted him after baseball practice.”

“Jesus.” His friend lifted his glass, swallowed a mouthful of scotch.

“There was no premeditation—he had the bat in his hand, and he simply reacted,” he explained. “Under the circumstances, can you blame him?”

“Actions have consequences, and he has to be responsible for those consequences.”

“Absolutely. But the consequences should be commensurate with the action. He had a moment where he acted impulsively and recklessly, but a criminal record will stick with him for life.”

“You stay up late last night working on that spin?”

“The truth doesn’t need spin.”

Gord considered that for a moment. “Is he remorseful?”

“Very.” Jack passed a handwritten note across the table.

His colleague skimmed the page; he scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Damn you, Jack.”

“You’re repeating yourself, Gord.” He passed over several more pages. “Character references from his teachers, guidance counselor, principal, high school baseball coach, his boss at the grocery store where he works part-time, and supervisor of the homework club where he volunteers twice a week.”

Gord sighed. “You really think you can get probation?”

“With a joint-sentencing recommendation, I do,” Jack said.

“I’ll go joint if anger management is one of the terms of probation, but the final decision is still up to the judge.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

Gord took another sip of his drink. “You still dating Angela from the registry office?”

Jack shook his head. “That was over a long time ago.”

“No thoughts about settling down and starting a family at this stage in your life?”

“Hell, no.” His failed marriage might be in the past, but it wasn’t so distant that he’d forgotten. And how could he when he spent almost every day in meetings and motions with husbands and wives who had once promised to love, honor, and cherish their spouses and were now hating, dishonoring, and spurning them?

His friend chuckled. “Are you sure you don’t want a minute to consider your response?”

Jack shook his head. “I was married once,” he confided. “When I was young and stupid.”

“Was it that girl you were with in Chicago?”

Jack paused with his bottle halfway to his lips. He’d forgotten that Gord had been at the same law conference he’d attended more than a dozen years earlier in Chicago. “No,” he said now. “That wasn’t her.”

“So who was she?” Gord asked curiously. “Because I seem to recall that you had some pretty intense chemistry with her.”

He frowned, as if trying to recall the details of those three glorious days that were still indelibly imprinted on his mind, then shook his head. “I don’t remember.”